Private Practice
by zoelou77
Summary: Post Reichenbach. Sherlock has recently returned and John will do anything to keep him safe. So when Moriarty demands that he replace the sniper Sherlock dispatched, he feels he has no choice. But how will this affect his relationship with Sherlock? Will Sherlock catch him when he takes on the case of one of John's victims?
1. Chapter 1

A/N:

Hi Guys. I am really unsure about this. I have another chapter complete. I will post that later in the week. Please let me know if you want me to carry on with this.

Thanks

**Private Practice**

John glanced at the clock on the wall of his room at the surgery. It read 5:40pm. He just had one patient left before he could go home. Home where Sherlock was. He couldn't believe that it had only been six weeks since his friend came back after a three year absence in, which time John had believed him to be dead.

After the initial shock and anger (in which John had given Sherlock a black eye and then snogged him thoroughly before concluding that he really wasn't that way inclined and had been overcome by emotion – much to Sherlock's amusement), Sherlock had explained everything – Moriarty's plan to kill his friends and Sherlock's subsequent mission to take down his network. John was still surprised that they had settled back into old routines so easily.

Sighing he pulled up the notes for his last patient – James Brooke, a new patient interview. John was glad that it was something that should be relatively simple. It had been a bitch of a day and he had the mother of all headaches threatening. He buzzed the intercom to call his patient.

He looked up as the door opened. "Please, take a seat, Mr …" The invitation died on his lips as he recognised the man before him. He scrunched up his face, taking a moment to compose himself. This was the second time in less than two months that he had been faced with the living dead. "Hmmm, you're dead." He finally managed.

Jim Moriarty laughed as he sat opposite John. It was a childish, almost free sound that at the same time was chilling, dark and manic. "I'm not sure that those years in medical school were all that beneficial if that's your conclusion, Dr. Watson."

"No, you blew your brains out! Sherlock watched you do it!"

Moriarty's demeanour darkened. "And my men watched Sherlock plummet to his death from the roof of St. Bart's!" Lightening up again in the way that those acquainted with Jim Moriarty were accustomed, he continued. "It would appear that we're both a bit rubbish at killing ourselves – too narcissistic, I guess!" Moriarty shrugged.

"OK, so you're alive, Sherlock's alive – back to the status quo. Why are you here? I'm assuming that you haven't changed your name to James Brooke and are looking for a GP on the NHS!"

"As always, Johnny boy, straight to the point! Did Sherlock tell you what he was doing for those three long years you spent pining for him?"

John smirked. "Taking apart your organisation, your web."

Moriarty chuckled, "Err no. I let him _think_ that he was doing that. Sherlock actually tidied up some lose ends for me; got rid of some liabilities." Jim smiled, licking his lips, then just as suddenly as it had appeared, the smile vanishes. "That was until three months ago. He managed to get close to some important contacts. So now, Johnny boy, it's revenge time. Does the name Sebastian Moran mean anything to you?"

Sherlock had, of course, told him of the three snipers tracking him, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. Colonel Sebastian Moran was the sniper assigned to him. Sherlock had taken him out barely a week before his 'resurrection'.

"I know who Colonel Moran was." John said coldly.

Something akin to distress flashed momentarily across Moriarty's features. "He was my best man. The crux of it is Dr. Watson, I need a good sniper and you are going to be that man."

John huffed out a disbelieving laugh. "And what exactly makes you think that I would agree to that?"

Jim pushed his iPhone across the desk to John. On the screen he saw Sherlock playing his violin; stood by the window in the living room of 221b. John recognised that the flat was exactly as he had left it that morning. Seeing his expression, Jim grinned. "If you don't agree to work for me, your friend will discover that I am alive and well – but he won't get to cherish that knowledge for long before I personally put a bullet between his eyes. This time, I won't be using blanks."

John blanched. "What if I tell him?"

"You both die." Jim slid a second iPhone across to John. "This phone will be my method of contact with you. I will contact you with details of each job. Go to the police; Sherlock and the old lady die; tell Sherlock, you and Sherlock die; disobey me and all three of you die. I'll be in touch John. I _have_ enjoyed catching up with you." With that Moriarty stood and left.

John let out a shuddering breath. What the hell just happened? Moriarty had left him with no choice. He had only just got Sherlock back; he would not lose him again. He had done unmentionable things in the past three years to keep John alive; now it was time to return the favour. He had killed in the army, he had killed for Sherlock, he would be able to do it again.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N:

So I got some follows and some favourites – thank you.

I will carry on with the story.

Chapter 2

John walked home rather than taking a cab or the tube; he needed to gather himself before he would be able to face Sherlock and hope to act as if everything was ok. In a bid to buy more time, he sent a message offering to pick up Chinese, even though he had no appetite.

By the time he reached Baker Street, John felt sick. He had bought the same meal for himself as always – he knew he needed to eat if he wanted to conceal all this from Sherlock; a diminished appetite always made Sherlock ask him what was wrong, he would rather not have to lie to him.

He was just about to put his key in the door when the message alert on the iphone chimed. 'Perfect timing' he thought as he read the message:

First job tomorrow. Details to follow. Enjoy your takeaway. Sweet and sour pork is an excellent choice. JM

John cursed at Moriarty's not so subtle way of telling him that he was being watched. Another message pinged, John looked at the screen.

Tut, tut Dr. Watson. Such language. JM

John snorted; so there was a bug in the phone, how original. John resolved to be careful about what he revealed while he had the phone on his person. The feed from the flat had been silent, but John wasn't naïve enough to believe that there was no sound feed just because he hadn't heard it. He would have to put on an Oscar-winning performance if he didn't want Sherlock to catch on that there was something majorly wrong.

"Sherlock, I'm back!" John called as he walked into the flat.

"So I see, John. Perfect timing. I have half an hour before the results will be ready." Sherlock came out of the kitchen dressed in lounge pants, t-shirt and his blue dressing gown, topped off with safety goggles.

They ate in silence as John let himself get engrossed in Doctor Who on BBC3. It was one of his favourite episodes – Blink. There was something magically chilling about these creatures that could only attack when unobserved. Sally Sparrow was a bit of hero to John and even Sherlock liked this episode and now examined each new DVD they acquired for 'Easter Eggs'. (He did actually manage one and John thinks he was actually disappointed that it didn't contain the Doctor and Martha's bizarre half conversation)

John spent an hour updating the blog after that. Sherlock had solved his first official case with the Yard since his return earlier that week. He titled it 'Something to Declare' as it involved a drug smuggling ring being covered up by customs officers at Heathrow. John wasn't happy with his writing and knew that it was the stress of Moriarty's earlier visit was to blame; affecting his concentration. Eventually, John saved his work without posting it, declaring to Sherlock he needed an early night.

That night Jon dreamt of hot dessert sand that stung the eyes as he crouched behind the armoured 4x4 in Helmand with his sniper's rifle cocked, searching for the hidden sniper who had just picked off his youngest corporal. When he finally sighted the sniper he recoiled in shock. It was Moriarty. Quickly John composed himself and took aim, but the lost time was too much, the sniper fired again. A man at his side fell, landing half on him. John looked down to see Sherlock with a hole in his head and blank eyes staring up at him.

One by one Moriarty picked off the soldiers, each had a familiar face; Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Mike, Mycroft, even Anthea. John just watched in horror until finally Moriarty's aim turned on him.

He awoke with a start, Sherlock leaning over him shaking him gently, calling his name "John, wake up!"

"What are you doing here?" John asked pushing himself up in the bed.

"You called out for me, so I came. So, bad dream?"

"Mmh."

"About me, obviously. Still about my death?"

"It's fine Sherlock. I'm fine." John lay back and closed his eyes, dismissing him.

Sherlock left John and went back to his work in the kitchen. He felt bad that his faked death had affected John so much. He never imagined he would take it so hard; a good thing he didn't. He is not sure that he could have knowingly done that to him, even knowing the alternative.

Sorry it's a shorty. The chapters should get longer from hereon in. Remember, your reviews will inspire me to continue …


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Go to locker 43 at Brixton South Community Gym. The key will be on top of the lockers. Take the contents and go to the roof of 52 Bennett Street. At 6.15pm your target (picture file attached) will be in view. Return the equipment to the locker no later than 7pm. JM

John read the message again, his hands were shaking. He put the phone back in his pocket and looked at his watch. 4.07pm. Surgery would close at 5pm and John had no more patients; he had been intending to catch up on paperwork. That was no longer possible. He needed to be able to concentrate. In his current state of mind, he would only make mistakes.

He picked up the phone and called through to Sarah. "Hi Sarah… Yes. Listen, I don't feel too good and I don't have any more patients, so I was going to head off. … Yeah, sure. … OK, see you tomorrow." John hung up and put his head in his hands. He could do this. He had to do this – he could not risk losing Sherlock again.

He grabbed his coat as he left, deciding to take a walk to clear his head and attempt to get a grip on himself. He had more than enough time to walk to Brixton, so that's the direction he took, walking along main roads, letting the sounds of everyday life anchor him back to normality. A normality where the biggest problems included getting home from work and what to cook for dinner.

By the time he arrived at the gym, a little over an hour later, Jon's nerves had calmed somewhat and he was able to think clearly. He took out the phone again and read through the instructions, before calling up the image of his target. John noted with relief that he did not recognise the man.

In the locker, there was a plain black holdall. It contained plain black combat pants, black sweatshirt, leather gloves and a sighted assault rifle. Typical sniper's tools. The get-up was familiar. On more than one occasion in his military service, John had been called upon as a sniper, as he was by far the best marksman in the unit. He took the holdall and left for Bennett Street. He would change while out of sight from the street on the roof.

He arrived on the roof with more than half an hour to spare. He used the time to check the rifle over. John noted with approval that it had recently been cleaned and everything moved smoothly.

It was a stunning weapon, an artist's tool as much as the Stradivarius was to Sherlock. This was an instrument, not for creating beautiful music, rather beautiful destruction. A part of John was sorry that he had to return it later. He liked the weight of his Browning, but it was a 'service' weapon, this was a thing of beauty.

Checking his watch; he saw that it was 6.03pm. John went to set up, checking the sight so that he would be ready when his target came into view. The last thing he wanted was to have to rush and someone to spot his movements on the rooftop. Finally, he checked the photo on the phone, noting everything about the target's appearance. He was roughly 6ft tall, slender build, mousy hair in a short style, but top-heavy. The photo showed him dressed in dark jeans and a smart shirt.

After roughly ten minutes, John spotted him walking along the street below and began to track him on the cross-hairs, waiting to make sure of a clear shot with no chance of civilian interference. Seeing the ideal shot, John held his breath as he fired.

It was a clean head-shot and the target dropped immediately. Utilising the moments of shock below, John grabbed the rifle and crawled on his belly away from the edge of the roof and out of sight from the street.

By 6.45pm John was leaving the gym again, having returned everything to locker 43 and replacing the key on top. He took the tube back to Baker Street, trying not to dwell on what he had done.

As he came up from the tube station, John's phone chimed a message:

Payment for a job well done now in your account. JM

Trembling, he pocketed the phone and entered the house. He went straight up to the flat and by passed Sherlock without a word as he bolted for the bathroom; only just making it as he vomited violently into the toilet. He sank to his knees shaking.

For the first time he had taken a life, not to obey an order in a war-time situation, or to defend another, but in cold blood. The fact that he had been paid for it made his status as hired assassin official. He retched again, this time bringing up only bile.

He jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw Sherlock holding a glass of water out to him, frowning.

"Are you OK, John?"

John took the water and rinsed his mouth before drinking a little. "Migraine" he lied, his voice hoarse.

Sherlock nodded. "You look like crap. Can you make it to your room?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine. Just give me a minute." John forced a small smile and Sherlock left him.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Apologies that I haven't updated in absolutely ages. I had humungous writer's block on this.

Thanks to Eve & Vikki for lifting that.

Chapter 4

John tossed and turned in his sleep, frowning. In his dream, he was back on the rooftop at Bennett Street, setting up the shot. Just as he held his breath to pull the trigger, he saw Sherlock out of the corner of his eye; put off, he missed the shot.

As Sherlock's gaze shifted to the source of the gunshot and ultimately John, John heard a tutting behind him. 'You know the price for screwing up, Johnny Boy.'

John awoke screaming as Sherlock crumpled to the floor. Relief mingled with horror as he realised that it was 'only' a dream and he curled in on himself crying silently. He still could not believe that he had become a hired killer, let alone that he was in the employ of Jim Moriarty.

'John?' The man in question jumped as Sherlock placed a hand on his shoulder. He lifted his gaze to meet the cool, grey eyes of his friend filled with guilt and concern. John shook his head, his eyes bright with tears. 'My friend, I'm concerned, talk to me.'

John said nothing. He couldn't trust himself to open his mouth; he didn't know what would come out – bile, screams … the truth … So he gritted his teeth and forced a small smile, shaking his head again.

Sherlock closed his eyes and bowed his head. ' I know this is my fault. For what it's worth, I'm sorry. If there had been another way, John, _any_ other way, I would've taken it. I hope you know that.' He squeezed John's shoulder and left the room sighing heavily.

He watched his friend leave. He knew he needed to get a grip. Sherlock knew something was wrong, but as yet didn't see exactly what. It was only a matter of time before he latched on to him, analysing and making deductions.

John got up and went to the bathroom, turning on the shower; he let the hot water soothe him. He was a soldier; he could do this, he _had to _do this.

/

The next morning, John came down at his usual time of 7.30am for breakfast before surgery; Sherlock was sat on his chair 'thinking'. John greeted him with a tired 'morning Sherlock' and went to make tea (coffee for Sherlock). As he was pouring the boiling water, he heard Sherlock speak from directly behind him.

'What was last night about, John The night terrors don't usually affect you that badly once you've woken up.'

John turns to hand him his coffee. 'It was just the migraine. I was certain that if I opened my mouth to speak, I was going to be sick, so I didn't. I'm OK now, the nausea has passed.' He starts making toast to prove his point.

Sherlock looked at his flatmate. He was pale and his hands were shaking slightly as he loaded bread into the toaster. There were dark circles under his eyes, which were bloodshot. Migraine seemed a feasible explanation for the physical symptoms. He supposed that the pain of the headache would cause increased sensitivity to emotional trauma. Eventually, he speaks, 'Are you sure you should be going to work today, John?'

John looks up. 'It's a headache, Sherlock. I've taken painkillers, I'll be fine now the nausea has passed' He forces a smile. [please buy it]

Sherlock nods. 'You're the doctor'

A/N: I know it's a short chapter. I promise more to follow in the next days


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

John sat in the surgery perusing the notes on his next patient. It had been over a week since he became Moriarty's new hired gun and he had managed to push it to the back of his mind. No more night terrors had come and he felt almost normal.

There had been a small item on the front of the local paper about the shooting. The dead man was a petty criminal, apparently involved in drug dealing 'Guess he stepped on Moriarty's toes' John thought. It made him feel a little better to know that he had rid the world of a drug dealer – the scum that had so often taken Sherlock's resonating mind captive.

A text pinged through on the iPhone:

You're doing well, Dr. Watson. Sherly has no idea. Next job will follow next week. JM

John pocketed the phone again, trying not to think of the implication of the message. He had managed to fall back into a normal routine and knew that he couldn't afford a crack in the façade again so soon. He buzzed the intercom for the next patient and buried himself in work.

The patient wasn't a pleasant experience; a young woman, 24 years old, subdued and withdrawn. John had eventually coaxed out of her that she had been raped two months previously, but had been too ashamed to report it. Now she had discovered that she was pregnant and wanted a termination.

John stamped on his own anger at the situation the girl found herself in to go through options with her and to recommend STI tests. The woman left 20 minutes later with an appointment for counselling and details of the local GUM clinic. She had assured John that she had a friend who would accompany her, waiting in the waiting room.

'Absolute fucking scum' John cursed to himself; blood boiling that men (mainly) still got away with this assault, because of the stigma still associated with it.

Another text pinged:

I agree John. I am many things, but I will not stand to see a woman hurt like that. I will allow you to avenge her. Details will follow. JM

John gave a wry smile; Jim Moriarty has morals – who'd have thought?

The rest of the patients were run of the mill coughs & colds and one medical review. The young woman was still on his mind when he bade farewell to Sarah and started home. He wasn't sure quite what to make of Moriarty's offer to find the man and allow John to kill him. Was it any different to kill for a morally sound reason – to protect others from a sexual predator? John wasn't sure. As it stood, there was no direct order from Moriarty to carry out this almost 'honour' killing. He could take the information, when he got it, to Lestrade. Yet without witness testimony, the information would be worthless. The only evidence of sexual interaction would be the aborted foetus; that would not prove rape. The defence would accuse the girl of crying rape to cover an unplanned and unwanted pregnancy. With all other potential physical evidence long washed away and healed, the defence would tear anything the shy girl said apart.

John made a decision and typed a message to Moriarty:

I am happy to accept the job. JW

Atta boy. JM

John pocketed the phone with a grim expression. If he was honest, his conscience would bother him more if he had the means to do something and did nothing – what did that say about him? Shaking his head, he made his way up the stairs to the flat. Sherlock was stood by the window, playing his violin. He was about halfway through the Fuge of one of John's favourite pieces 'Tocatta et Fuge in D Minor' by JS Bach; John stood for a while, leaning against the doorframe listening

'I can hear you thinking, John'

'Sorry'

Sherlock turned and looked him over. 'Ah, I do wish you would leave your patients at the surgery, John. I need you focused'

'It's not always that easy, Sherlock.' John headed to the kitchen to make himself tea.


End file.
